The Collective

ST. PETER

Ummm... yessir.

GOD

Shit. (Pause) Maybe I better cut Down on my drinking. (Pause)

Still... It WAS in the way.

Fade to black, except for the spotlight on the ruins of the floating

globe.

ST. PETER

Yessir.

GOD (muttering)

My son got back, didn't he?

ST. PETER

Yessir, some time ago.

GOD

Good. Everything's hunky-dory, then.

THE SPOTLIGHT GOES OUT.

(Author's note: GOD'S VOICE should be as loud as possible.)

Before The Play

Stephen King

Copyright 1982 by Stephen King.

'Before the Play,' was first published in Whispers,

Vol. 5, No. 1-2, August 1982.

A BEDROOM IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING

Coming here had been a mistake, and Lottie Kilgallon didn't like to

admit her mistakes.

And I won't admit this one, she thought with determination as she

stared up at the ceiling that glimmered overhead

Her husband of 10 days slumbered beside hen Sleeping the sleep

of the just was how some might have put it. Others, more honest,

might have called it the sleep of the monumentally stupid. He was

William Pillsbury of the Westchester Pillsburys, only son and heir

of Harold M. Pillsbury, old and comfortable money. Publishing

was what they liked to talk about because publishing was a

gentleman's profession, but there was also a chain of New England

textile mills, a foundry in Ohio, and extensive agricultural holdings

in the South - cotton and citrus and fruit. Old money was always

better than nouveau riche, but either way they had money falling

out of their assholes. If she ever said that aloud to Bill, he would

undoubtedly go pale and might even faint dead away No fear, Bill.

Profanation of the Pillsbury family shall never cross my lips.

It had been her idea to honeymoon at the Overlook in Colorado,

and there had been two reasons for this. First, although it was

tremendously expensive (as the best resorts were), it was not a

"hep" place to go, and Lottie did not like to go to the hep places.

Where did you go on your honeymoon. Lottie? Oh, this perfectly,

wonderful resort hotel in Colorado - the Overlook. Lovely place.

Quite out of the way but so romantic. And her friends - whose

stupidity was exceeded in most cases only by that of William

Pillsbury- himself - would look at her in dumb - literally! - wonder.

Lottie had done it again.

Her second reason had been of more personal importance. She had

wanted to honeymoon at the Overlook because Bill wanted to go to

Rome. It was imperative to find out certain things as soon as

possible. Would she be able to have her own way immediately?

And if not, how long would it take to grind him down? He was

stupid, and he had followed her around like a dog with its tongue

hanging out since her debutante ball, but would he be as malleable

after the ring was slipped on as he had been before?

Lottie smiled a little in the dark despite her lack of sleep and the

bad dreams she had had since they arrived here. Arrived here, that

was the key phrase. "Here" was not the American Hotel in Rome

but the Overlook in Colorado. She was going to be able to manage

him just fine, and that was the important thing. She would only

make him stay another four days (she had originally planned on

three weeks, but the bad dreams had changed that), and then they

could go back to New York. After all, that was where the action

was in this August of 1929. The stock market was going crazy, the

sky was the limit, and Lottie expected to be an heiress to

multimillions instead of just one or two million by this time next

year. Of course there were some weak sisters who claimed the

market was riding for a fall, but no one had ever called Lottie

Kilgallon a weak sister.

Lottie Kilgallon. Pillsbury now at least that's the way I'll have to

sign my checks, of course. But inside I'll always be Lottie

Kilgallon. Because he's never going to touch me Not inside where

it counts.

The most tiresome thing about this first contest of her marriage

was that Bill actually liked the Overlook. He was up even, day at

two minutes past the crack of dawn, disturbing what ragged bits of

sleep she had managed after the restless nights, staring eagerly out

at the sunrise like some sort of disgusting Greek nature boy. He

had been hiking two or three times, he had gone on several nature

rides with other guests, and bored her almost to the point of

screaming with stories about the horse he rode on these jaunts, a

bay mare named Tessie. He had tried to get her to go on these

outings with him, but Lottie refused. Riding meant slacks, and her

posterior was just a trifle too-wide for slacks. The idiot had also

suggested that she go hiking with him and some of the others - the

caretaker's son doubled as a guide, Bill enthused, and he knew a

hundred trails. The amount of game you saw, Bill said, would

make you think it was 1829, instead of a hundred years later. Lottie

had dumped cold water on this idea too.

"I believe, darling, that all hikes should be one-way, you see."

"One-way?" His wide Anglo-Saxon brow crippled and croggled

into its usual expression of befuddlement. "How can you have a

one-way hike, Lottie?"

"By hailing a taxi to take you home when your feet begin to hurt,"

she replied coldly,

The barb was wasted. He went without her, and came back

glowing. The stupid bastard was getting a tan.